Captains and Cruise Ships
by Dwindling Serenity
Summary: Dean is a successful business man and Castiel is an adventurous soul. Their past was one long abandoned, but Dean will crash his beloved desk job and swim through the debris and Castiel will wait at the pier with those blue flowers up in his dark tangled hair. Destiel AU Two-Shot. Song-Fic: Captains and Cruise Ships by Owl City.
1. Part I

**A.N. This is my first Destiel ficlet (woot woot). It's a two-shot AU song-fic based off the song Captains and Cruise Ships by Owl City (Adam Young). Yeah, okay. Sorry for typos, I don't have a beta.**

**Let it be known that I've never been to California, so I'm not to knowledgeable on the geography and such.**

**Part I: Midnight Streets and Bluer Skies**

Dean lets out a sigh, his cheeks puffing out as he twirls in his computer chair. Filing papers on his desk, he closes his laptop and packs his leather case. He glances at the clock on his wall and lets a small smile grace his lips. And thoughts of a blue-eyes love cross his mind and that smiles escalates into a grin. He shoulders his suit jacket and nearly rushes out of the office, desiring to get home as quickly as possible. He almost laughs in glee as his head is filled with fantasies of landing in Orlando after a long flight. He'd race off the plane but he'd calm himself to have a seemingly cool exterior. And his angel would be there at security check, wrapped up in his tan overcoat for sure, azure eyes shining.

"Dean!" Someone calls out and he is snatched out of his reverie. He blinks his emerald eyes thrice before recognizing the face before him. His boss sneers a cold smirk, eyes chilly.

"Mr. Roman." Dean nods, fingers tapping against his case in impatience.

"Dean, there's going to be a conference for Los Angeles tech companies and I'd like you to represent Roman Enterprise's electronic market. It starts tomorrow in Santa Monica at the Fairmont Miramar. I would've told you earlier but I was busy in the Food District and well, I really need you to be there." Richard Roman smiles at Dean and a few choice insults come to the Winchester's mind that parallel with the CEO's nickname.

But work is important and Dean has a commitment to his company.

"Of course, Mr. Roman." Dean nods, suppressing a sigh as he turns back to the elevator. Once alone in the cubicle, he fetches his cell phone out of his pant pocket and dials his angel.

"Dean!" The eldest Winchester can hear the grin on the brunette's voice and it breaks his heart.

"Hey, Castiel." Dean's voice falters and he scratches his nose.

"Are you packed yet? I can't wait to see you. I'm in West Palm Beach right now, but once your plane gets closer, I'll head off to Orlando." Castiel gives a small laugh and Dean feels his bottom lip quivering. "I'm on the pier, you know, that pier where we promised."

Dean's heart shatters and he has to steady his breathing. "Castiel," Dean tries to interrupt.

"And wow, you need to see the forked bluecurls; they're blooming again-"

"Castiel-"

"They're the most beautiful lavender-"

"_Castiel."_

"Yes, Dean?" The voice on the other line is an innocent one and Dean feels it difficult to continue on.

"Castiel. I-I er, I won't be able to make it. I've got a conference to attend to, last minute." There is silence and Dean finds himself rambling. "Richard just cornered me three seconds ago; I want to be there, in West Palm, with you. I want to be there on that pier with you.

"But I just can't make it."

"Dean," Castiel says after eons of muteness. "You're getting too caught up in this life. You've abandoned our vows of adventure in contingency. I honestly doubt you'll _ever_ come back to Florida."

Dean has no response and Castiel has nothing to add so the conversation carries on mute until there is a soft ding, the elevator doors open and the Floridian hangs up.

* * *

There is a thundering crack and Dean bolts up right, covered in cold sweat, heart-pounding, hyperventilating. He glances towards his left wall, which is completely window, and finds himself amid a storm. A bolt of lightning flashes and Dean flinches, figuring that's what woke him up.

He wipes perspiration from his forehead and rolls out of his king-sized bed. With a cautious step forward, his stomach lurches upward and Dean bends over in a wave of nausea. He growls in discomfort and trudges to his bathroom and lays down on the tile floor, relishing in the glacial embrace as his side presses against the cool surface.

He is tired of these nightly stomachaches; as of late he's been feeling so sick and he's so sick of being tired. Dean sighs as he realizes that this is one of the first nights he's been able to fall asleep and remain in slumber for more than three consecutive hours. But as every night, blue eyes etched on the back of Dean's eyelids leave him in sleepless discomfort.

Insomnia is not a foreign friend to Dean. He suffered through it as a child, struggling to raise his younger brother in the absence of an alcoholic father. But it has been years since the stars graced his waking eyes; in this stupor of illness, however, he cannot appreciate the night sky full of fractured diamond dust that was all too often flawlessly captured in the azure eyes of a soulful boy.

.

Dean slumps into his Impala and doesn't even cast a glance at the vacant passenger seat to his right. He starts the car and pulls out of his winding driveway, questing for solace in the journey of a midnight drive. The ebony hours casts a dark hush that muffles the world surrounding Dean and he cannot focus on anything besides the apartment lights that whir by and dim, leaving him speeding into darkness.

There was once a presence that used to sit by his side and explore the moonlight terrain after Sam became too busy with his studies to ride in the Impala. But now neither his brother nor his angel accompany him and the tradition of cruising the streets at night becomes a mundane act of echoing solitude. Dean doesn't say anything, letting the numbness in his soul suffocate him.

.

The conference drags on as voices continue to ramble, reciting boring facts and boring statistics and boring logistics. Dean sits at a grand table with other CEO's and marketers and as he doodles abstracted lines on his handout, Dean figures that the life he has wandered into -_this_ life- is not the life meant for him. When the first day of a terrible meeting ends, Dean packs his things away, loosening his tie as he makes his way back to his room. It's early in the evening, the twilight scarlet of sunset spilling into his room from outside, but Dean is exhausted and changes into sweats and a tee before sliding into the standard hotel bed and eases into the nothingness of slumber.

_Dean is eighteen again, interlocking his fingers with a blur, resting on a stonewall. He glances to his left and finds cerulean glass staring back at him, a smile in those eyes. Dean feels his face heat as the blur rests his head on Dean's shoulder and the Winchester focuses on twirling the blue flowers between the pads of his fingertips. He catches his breath and weaves the flora into the other teen's hair. Dean makes a diadem of the bluecurls and smiles softly down at his angel. _

_ Dean can feel this world fading fast so he catches one last wistful glance down at the boy, taking in a teenaged face, full of youth and splendor -a face full of hope that had gone extinct in their current, grown-up state. Dean's smile falters as the whiteness washes away the blur and all that's left in a smidgen of blue eyes that reflect bluer skies._

Dean's eyelids flutter open and he sighs heavily. He knows that there's no point in going back to sleep now, not when he can't shake those eyes. So he crawls to the edge of his bed and unzips the laptop case on the floor. He pulls the Mac out and starts it up, sitting cross-legged on the bed, the comforter tangled around his legs. He opens Skype, praying that Castiel is still awake. He holds his breath and breaks into a wavering grin when there's an awkward "Hello."

Behind Dean is the soft skyline of Santa Monica's bay, the ships preparing to sail and docking in. There are no words between the two and Dean notices a handful of forked bluecurls in Castiel's hands. His heart clenches knowing that his own pot of the flora he took with him to California has gone unattended to in his office. "Castiel. Please tuck those in your hair."

Castiel refuses with a shake of his head, wiping his teary eyes with the heel of his hand and logs off Skype, leaving a blank screen.

Dean's breathing goes shallow and he closes the computer. He curls under the wrinkled sheets and falls asleep to the rhythm of his silent sobbing.

.

There's a promise Dean made once a long time ago.

He'd take Castiel and buy a boat and sail the sea.

But that was when they were eighteen and that was a foolish dream of lovestruck teenagers nearly five years ago. And Dean is too busy here, rooted into a place with a thriving market. Too busy for Castiel's nomadic dreams and adventurous wishes.

But these walls are closing him in and even though the sun is shinning through the windows, there's an uncomfortable chill settling over him.

It's empty here.

And there's an echo ringing in his voice, "Promise, Dean?"

.

"The same sky, different times." Dean muses, resting on a lawn chair in his front yard. Though they both sleep under the same celestial canvas, it's different stars Castiel is laying under. Dean's sure that Castiel had finally given up on his and he chugs a bottle of spirits in response to that thought. He doesn't want his angel to forget. He doesn't want his angel to ever forget.

But wants mean nothing without action.

.

_Salutations Dean-_

_ It is not my wish to carry on a life absent of you. It still desire to hear from you, but seeing you only hurts my heart beyond measures incomparable. So instead, I have composed this letter for you with high (but dwindling) hopes that you will read earnestly and follow with a reply. _

_ Anyways, in our week of zero communication, I have embarked on a few adventurous in our lovely state. The Indian River Lagoon is as beautiful as ever. I ventured to some of the spoil islands, the ones that are smaller and create peculiar chains. And I saw those birds, the tiny fluffy ones. The Piping Plovers and I was reminded of you because you used to compare the inquisitive, chirping birds to me all of the time. And then I grew sad and tried to think of you less. _

_ But here I am writing a letter to you so I don't think it's working. (I'm still sad.)_

_ I'd say more but I'm trying not to get the ink and paper wet with tear blotches so this is where I shall end. _

_ I'm praying for your return. _

_ -Yours forever and always, _

_ Castiel_

There are tear blotches on the letter.

But they aren't Castiel's.

* * *

Dean's fingers are tapping on his elbow nervously as Castiel sighs on the other line. The phone in his hand is shaking against his ear and Dean struggles to breathe.

"I'm done, Dean."

The world around Dean stops and the only thing that exists is the voice on the phone and the deafening crack of a heart.

"I can't keep waiting for you. I can't hoping in my heart that you'll come back. You'll never come back. You'll never-"

Dean drops the phone after it hangs up on Castiel's line.

The crack shatters and Dean can't even be bothered to pick up the pieces. Instead he collapses to his knees, eyes wide and glazed over with tears. He rests his head in his hands and allows the liquid diamonds to fall.


	2. Part II

**Part II: Mad Houses and Tree-Lined Driveways**

_"For what it's worth, darling dear, I wish you were here."_

But what is it really worth? Dean shakes his head and scratches through his letter in progress. What is it really worth when Castiel has given up on him? When Dean has abandoned Castiel and has given up on himself? He restarts his letter on a fresh piece of paper.

_"Dear Castiel- _

_I feel so alone."_

* * *

Five years ago, with the money saved from summer jobs and housework chores, two boys fresh out of high school laid the down payment for an apartment on the desk of the manager in some tropic-styled front building. The smiling woman behind the desk handed the two their key without any questions, something that taller boy was grateful for. Kansas hadn't been so accepting; hopefully Florida would be different.

They left the office and with silent excitement escalating, they walked to the building with a large brass '3' on the side, the one closest to the sand. They marched up the stairs, exchanging small smiles. Laughter bubbled to the blue-eyed boy's lips as they jumped the last step.

The freckled boy unlocked the door and held it open for the shorter. He walked in with sapphire eyes wide, holding his breath. "Dean," he finally whispered in awe.

Dean had worked out a deal with the land lady; he'd been moving in all their belongings for a few weeks, setting up the whole apartment so that it would be ready for when his angle first saw it. Their tattered gray futon was against the back wall, a small palm tree by its side. A patterned carpet rested on the tile floor and a small television was across from the futon, with a few paintings of foreign landscapes hanging on the walls to complete the living room. The boy in the tan overcoat slowly twirled in the center of the room, arms out with a radiating, beautiful smile.

"Wait 'til you see the room. Come on, Castiel." Dean grinned softly, lacing his fingers with his angel's. He led Castiel into the only bedroom in the apartment.

The back wall was completely removed and replaced by window. Through the glass, the cyan ocean kissed the blue sky just beyond the beach that their new housing rested on. Against the window was a king-sized bed that Dean had found at a sale. Sunset orange blankets covered the bed, the same color as the evening sky in Key West.

Castiel turned to Dean with watery eyes and fell into his steady arms.

"This is everything, Dean." He breathed through his sobs and it was a happy kind of sob, the happiest cry Dean had ever seen. Castiel looked up at him and there was pure bliss in those eyes and Dean's heart had never felt so full warm.

"It's only for now. Until we get that boat like we promised we would." Dean's smile was a soft one, one full of flawless love. "Oh!" His eyebrows shot up and he ran to the bedroom closet and fetches a covered frame. He held it up to the wall and shot a smirk at Castiel before hanging up the frame parallel to the bed and ripped off the covering.

Castiel stifled a gasp and pressed close to Dean's side. He fingers brushed against the enlarged photograph of their pier in West Palm. "Promise, Dean?"

.

Dean Winchester is digging through his storage chest in his closet. The Convention is over and memories of their eighteen year old life continue to plague him. At the top of the chest are old work files and he sets those aside. At the bottom of the chest is a covered frame.

Amid the piles of old papers, Dean gingerly removes the cover of the frame and strokes the canvas of the photo.

Castiel's sweet and light voice used fill the small apartment and Dean would sometimes hum softly along to himself before quietly joining Castiel in singing his peculiar Indie Folk songs. But now only cold and unforgiving silence echoes, weighing heavily on Dean. He hums with a tight throat a tune Castiel loves, and places the files back into the chest, standing up with the frame tucked in his arms. With his broken humming sadly resonating through the halls, he carries the frame with reverence until he reaches his room.

He jumps unto his bed and leaps over to his bed frame. He removes some modern art piece full of blue abstracted lines and tosses it aside, almost smiling as the glass case shatters. He, with cautious and shaking hands, hangs the photographed pier above his bed and lets his hums become a melodious whisper.

"_Though I feel so sad, I can't believe things are really that bad."_

.

Dean's been pushing himself, just as everyone told him he ought to . But he's been pushing himself in the wrong direction. He's been pushing himself into Sam's direction, a direction of mundane afternoons and busy workdays. But he has always needed a moving life with the next adventure promised in the stars tangible to his outstretched fingertips.

He's been pushing himself away from Castiel.

But there is something he can do; there is always something to be done and something Dean Winchester must do to salvage his everything.

.

"Dean. How are those reports coming along?" Mr. Roman slithers his way into Dean's office, playing with the bouncing Earth bobble globe on Dean's desk. Dean hides a smirk to himself and continues typing silently. "Dean?" Mr. Roman growls. "Dean Winchester, I asked you a question."

Richard plucks a petal of a wilting bluecurl from the brown pot near Dean's computer and crumples it in his fist, slamming it unto the table.

Dean's fingers twitch and there is a snarl in voice. "Get your damn hands off my flowers."

Silence.

"Excuse me?"

Dean glares up at his boss, a wicked gleam in his emerald eyes. "I said, _get your damn hands off my flowers._"

Mr. Roman stands agape before regaining his posture. "That's it, Mr. Winchester. You'll regret that."

Dean shrugs. "I might. I might regret this too." He pushes the computer off his desk and cackles at the shatter. "I might regret this!" He gathers up all the papers on his desks and clambers to stand on his swivel chair. With a wink at his gaping boss, he tosses the papers into the air, kicking off his desk to sail around the office in his rolling chair. "And I might regret this!"

Dean jumps from the chair and squares his shoulders before gripping the edges of his desk and flipping the table over. As the last of the papers flutter back towards the ground, gravity lightly lulling them back, Dean meets Roman's eyes and licks his lips. "But I don't."

He snatches up his potted Floridian native, tending to the forked bluecurls with care before leaving the messy room with a paralyzed CEO in his wake. Dean pauses and turns on his heel, leaning back through the open door after a moment of heavy silence. "Just in case I wasn't clear, I quit." He grins, his eyes crinkling as Richard struggles to process all that has happened.

Dean whistles the unmistakable tune of "It's Not Unusual" as he cradles his potted flowers and walks to the large silver elevators. Once out of the skyscraper, he races to the Impala and speeds home, booking the soonest flight to Orlando on his mobile. He blurs through the streets of Los Angeles and once home, sprints to his room.

Propping up an open suitcase on his bed, he hastily throws in an inordinateness of random clothes from his dresser before doing a double take at the photograph above his bed frame. Dean removes the frame and manages to fit the picture in his large case before letting out a whoop in a rush of dazed adrenaline and leaving his large, Californian house for the last time. With a call to Sam, a house key and a car key hidden in the fern by the front door, Dean leaves Baby for the younger brother in his driveway and calls a Taxi to take him into town.

Time melts as Dean witnesses the Californian streets for the last time before entering LAX. Nothing feels real, nothing is tangible. He blinks and it's only been a moment but there he is, sitting on the plush blue seats of a first class flight and it's actually been two hours since Richard Roman entered his office and plucked his perfect little plant. Dean brushes his fingers against the soft petals of the forked bluecurls to assure himself that this is reality. His stomach rises with the plane, but despite his worries and fear, Dean can't help but smile as he prays for five years worth of forgiveness.

* * *

Castiel is making tea as Adam Young's charismatic voice fills his tiny house, sounding from the iPod Doc on the kitchen counter. On his table rests the opened letter that the brunet has read over time and time again. He's fairly certain he can recite it from memory but when he whispers the message out loud, he can never make it past the first line without choking up. He sighs and takes a sip of his tea before glancing at the letter.

"'Dear Castiel.'" he starts. "'I feel so alone-'"

There's a soft, almost hesitant knock on Castiel's door and he is saved from the heartache. He sets his still smoldering tea down and trudges over to his front door, suppressing saddening memories that play over in his mind. He opens the front door and stops breathing.

Down his tree-lined driveway is a boat -a great one with a big motor and a door that might lead to a little sleeping room- that is hooked to the back of a shiny white truck. And standing in front of him is an aged man, five years kind to his chiseled face. His emerald eyes are weary yet hopeful and Castiel might be wrong but there seems to be a teary glaze clouding the flawless green. Castiel can feel his bottom lip quivering and there are tears streaming down his cheeks.

The man plucks one of the slightly wilting flowers from the pot in his grasp and tucks it behind Castiel's ear. A thousand apologies reflect in his eyes but all the man says is,

"Cas."


End file.
